“Honey,” a one-word wakeup on a weekday morning. So simple to say, but loaded with meaning. Good or bad, you can be sure a conversation is coming.
“I’m late” does not mean that that is an event somewhere at that hour. It means that the faint pink line confirms her count, and Anya is to have a younger sibling.
A high. Then devastation, then not. Roller coasters have nothing on these week’s emotions. But we’re ahead of ourselves, and on this beautiful Tuesday morning the tears have not been shed and the fears are yet to visit.
A wakeup, not unlike another in what seems now like another world. Before we knew of happiness and sorrow. Of bliss and bile. On that morning in late January of a biting Tokyo winter when I was first ever told that I was a father. “Wow” was all I could say. To be a father. “Wow.”
Such happy news. A child. Our child. My child. A word I could type all day without tiring. A child. Our child. My child. The cadence reverbs within the heart and a smile breaks.
And then fear. A pink in a place that should not have been. And pain where it only means trouble. And a retest with the line even fainter. Our hearts go back to the past. When these same signs lead to such sorrow. When a tiny life was lost before it was begun.
Just when all hopes is lost, things stabilize and the doctor says it may be all right. We catch our breaths, but innocence is lost and pure joy has fled. Cautious optimism is the word we hold onto.
At ten months, Anya is too young to understand what is going on. The only thing she knows is that her source of comfort is drying up. There is no conclusive evidence either way, but the doctor’s advice is to wean her as breastfeeding may contribute to miscarriages. We study. We debate and reluctantly follow this advice. Anya already eats baby food and has been supplemented with formula for a while, so the breast has mostly been for comfort.
The last couple of days have been rougher as she’s not used to this. I hope this will improve over time.
So there we are. Happy, we think. Worried, we know. At five weeks, you only tell the ones you feel comfortable sharing the potentially bad news, for many weeks of real danger lie ahead. Most of our friends will wait, but for those here, who know our story, the ones who shared the tears and laugher of an anonymous family a world away, it would feel strange to not tell you.
Cautious optimism. Which we hope soon will be shorten to one word.
Anyway, at 10 months, she’s already been given a great start on mother’s milk --and she’s also eating food,-- so you needn’t worry on her account.